Fall and Rise
by Scarlett Ashes
Summary: On the final night aboard the Jolly Roger before the search for Henry begins, Hook offers Emma a way to find both sleep and peace.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a two-part short story I've been working on for a few weeks. It turned out quite differently than I imagined, but I'm happy with the outcome regardless. It focuses on the last night before the ship ports and the group begins its search for Henry on the island, and delves into what my vision of Hook and Emma's relationship would be if in fact they both feel this "connection" as strongly as I hope they do. Part one is rated "T" and part two will be rated "M." Hope you guys enjoy!**

**The characters aren't mine sadly, but the story is.**

**Oh, and please let me know what you think! This thing is the reason I've gotten behind on DTM, and I just hope it was worth it :)**

_**Fall and Rise**_

**Part 1**

"Swan."

The whispered voice was barely audible over the sound of the ocean, and none of the others in the cabin stirred but her. Emma's already open eyes flicked to the doorway.

"What?" she whispered back, catching sight of Hook's unmistakable silhouette. She couldn't deny that part of her welcomed the intrusion, but only because she was sick and tired of lying awake in that damned bunk while the others slept around her. Emma had already spent too much time alone with her thoughts, her frazzled brain blasting images of Henry and Neal's face in numerous, all equally disturbing scenarios. As if the reality of the situation wasn't already unbearable, her mind seemed intent on torturing her just that much more as she wondered whether Neal had suffered long after passing through the portal, or if Henry was even still alive.

"Come out here a moment," she heard his whisper. David's snores abruptly stopped, but after a moment he turned over on the floor and flung a heavy arm over her mother. Something in Emma's gut clenched at the sight, wishing for even the briefest moment that someone could hold her like that. Maybe then she'd sleep. She exhaled the breath she'd been holding slowly, her shoulders still tense as she sat up.

"Fine," she whispered back, carefully and quietly swinging her legs over the side and standing up. She slowly picked her way over her parents, noting the way Mary Margaret had automatically hugged David's arm against her. When she reached the door and the cool air of the corridor, it was like stepping out into fresh air. Hook was leaning against the door jam, his hand resting on his belt buckle.

"Move," she whispered, shooing him off the wood panel so she could close the door behind her. She pulled it to with a _click_, and the quiet sound seemed to echo louder than it actually did. She didn't miss the way he raised his brow, or the smirk that briefly lit up his face, but she decided to ignore it. "Now what is it?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. The goose bumps on her arms suddenly made her wish that she'd brought her sweater with her.

"I have something for you," he replied, brow lifting. "Something that might help you during the nights."

"Jesus Christ." She rolled her eyes, two seconds away from turning back around to stew in the dark again, when his hand lightly touched her elbow.

"I don't mean _that_," he said, holding her gaze. The sincerity she found there held her, and she didn't shrug off his hand. She noticed for the first time that he looked as tired as she felt, his eyes rimmed with red and his beard longer and scruffier than usual. His hair was mussed and stuck up in the back, as if he'd been lying in his bunk just as she had, tossing and turning. She found herself wondering for a moment just what ghosts and demons had been haunting his dreams.

"What, then?" she asked, softening her voice.

His hand left her arm, and he withdrew something from his back pocket. When he held the object between them, Emma immediately recognized it as a flask. She uncrossed her arms, but paused before taking it.

"Go on, it's yours," he pressed. "I promise it's not poisoned." The grin on his face was infectious, but she just stopped herself from reciprocating by sighing and pressing her lips tightly together.

"What is this, rum?" she asked, wrapping her fingers around it. The black container was heavier than it looked, the liquid sloshing around inside and she examined it. The front was an intricately engraved iron casing, its sides stiff leather, and the smooth iron cap was connected by a leather cord. It looked like a piece that should have been on display in some kind of museum, beautiful and aged and unique.

"From my own personal stash," he answered her. "And the point is to drink it, darling, not stare at it."

Her eyes flashed up at that. She met his gaze, searching for any sign or inkling of what his actual intentions might be. She knew from experience that he could push her buttons in all the wrong places when he tried, and make her squirm and feel uneasy and nervous. Emma had quickly learned to watch out for those moments, to avoid him and push him away when that side of him reared its head. But now, even as she searched for some vestige of the Hook who liked to get under her skin, she couldn't find him. Even as he stood so close to her, shirt open and sans any kind of coat or vest, more…exposed and open than usual, she didn't feel uncomfortable. She didn't feel the need to hightail it outta there, or chain him down somewhere so he couldn't get to her. The thought of going back into that dark room and drinking herself to sleep bothered her more than the man standing in front of her now.

"Do you have some cups or something?" she finally asked, turning her eyes back down to the flask. "Somewhere we could – "

At that moment the ship chose to lurch unexpectedly to the side, and Emma felt that familiar gut wrenching sensation in her stomach as her balance waivered. Hook's warm, steady hand was suddenly on her shoulder and stopping her from falling against the wall.

"Damnit," she huffed, her hand automatically reaching out and gripping his arm. She laughed once, straightening herself when the rocking ceased. "I'm never going to get used to that."

"It takes a bit of experience, but you'll get your sea-legs yet," he said, patting her arm before dropping his hand back.

"I'd rather not be on here long enough to," she answered, the honest words coming out before she could think about them. As soon as she caught the way his jaw tightened, though, Emma realized with a strange anxiety that her words had bothered him. He immediately looked away from her.

"Of course, that's only natural," he said, voice clipped. "You need to find your son and get back to your home. The sooner he's found the sooner we can all go about our separate ways, and I can get back to doing what I came to do in the first place."

She realized at once that she didn't like the way his tone, his look, his entire freaking aura seemed to change instantly. He was putting on that "Hook" face again, the tight set of his shoulders and neck making him seem taller, more imposing than he had only moments ago.

"Hook, I didn't mean it like – "

"Good night, Swan," he interrupted her, abruptly turning and striding back towards his cabin. "I hope that helps," he said, turning to eye the flask as she gripped it tighter. His door was closed before she could even gather what she was supposed to say. Was she sorry? Had she done or said something that required an apology? It wasn't wrong that she wanted to get to Henry as soon as possible. Surely he realized that? This wasn't her life. She didn't sail on pirate ships and freaking fight dragons and evil witches and fucking Peter Pan. She was just a bail bondsman from Boston, a sheriff in Storybrooke. She just wanted to learn how to be a mother and a daughter again. She didn't need to add the responsibilities of a "savior" on top of all that. She didn't need to worry about what Captain Hook thought or wanted.

Emma knew that he wasn't just a fictional character in a children's fairytale, though. She couldn't use his name and the stories written about him to decide whether or not he was worth caring about. Hook was a man, despite the things he might have done before, and she didn't really believe that he was evil. He was a human being. He'd loved before, and had that person taken from him just as Neal and Graham had been taken from her.

Emma's feet were carrying her down the corridor before she let herself consider what she was doing. Her hand was soon on the knob, twisting without hesitation. The door swung open noiselessly, and she found herself gazing into his room. She noted the singular bunk and the small desk shoved up along the wall, and then her eyes landed on the Captain himself. His back was to her as he slipped his shirt over his head. Her face flushed even as she watched the fabric catch something on his arm, before nimble fingers carefully picked the sleeve away from what looked like leather straps criss-crossing his forearm. After carefully sliding the wide sleeve over his hook, he tossed the shirt over a chair, his now bare back still facing her. It seemed he hadn't noticed or heard her at all.

His fingers were working at a buckle that connected a band around his bicep, just above his elbow, and she realized very quickly that it was part of what kept the hook over his…on his arm, and she suddenly felt an unexplainable twinge of panic tighten her chest. She cleared her throat loudly before he could remove it, so he would notice her.

"What is it, Swan?" he asked, glancing once at her over his shoulder. His lack of surprise startled her.

"You knew– "

"That you were here? Yes. I was wondering when you'd say something. I take it this bothers you?" He turned so that he faced her, motioning towards his left arm, but she felt her mind go blank as she stared, and for a moment she was quite lost in the sight of him. Despite everything, despite the still acute ache in her chest for Neal and the worry that encompassed her whole mind for Henry, something about the way he stood there, not the least perturbed by her presence despite his vulnerable state – he exuded a confidence that she'd never seen before in anyone.

"Swan," he said, his voice teetering on the edge of annoyance. "What are you doing here?" She whipped her eyes back to his, and then at a point just over his shoulder.

"I wanted to thank you for the alcohol," she said, the words automatically tumbling out. "And to yell at you for being so sensitive." Both his eyebrows shot into his hairline at that, but she trudged on. "Mostly though, I just want to have a drink. I don't drink hard stuff alone. It's a rule of mine ever since...well, since Henry found me."

"I do it all the time," he said, a bite to his voice. She caught his gaze again.

"Not tonight," she shrugged, all the implications of his words buzzing in her head. She wondered just how long he'd really been by himself. "Unless you plan on kicking me out, that is."

"I'm considering it," he answered quickly, stepping towards her. "You didn't even knock, you know. That was quite rude of you, especially since I'm the captain. I've punished many for much less than that."

He stopped just inches away, the dark look in his eyes beginning to make her skin crawl. Instead of shrinking back, however, she made the move to step even closer, meeting his eyes blink for blink.

"Cut the crap, Hook. If you ask me to leave, I will. It's as simple as that. Otherwise…" she shook the flask in front of his face, "break out the shot glasses."

The hard set of his eyes relaxed in an instant. He almost looked baffled. She felt her shoulders relax again as he considered her, his teeth catching his tongue as his eyes flicked from the flask in her hand to her face.

"I was about to go to sleep," he said, slipping his gaze down her front. There was a hint of suggestion in his eyes, but only a veil.

"I can see that," she said, rocking her weight back on her heels as she averted her gaze. Her eyes were automatically drawn to the straps on his arm again, and she remembered his first question. "You know, I suppose that doesn't so much bother me as make me wonder."

"What?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. The abrupt change in conversation seemed to throw him off. She smiled to herself at the minor victory.

"I'm talking about that," she said, nodding towards his hook. "You asked if it bothered me."

"Oh," he answered, glancing at it himself. His forehead creased. "What is it you wonder about, exactly?"

Damnit. He would ask a hard question like that. Unwilling to show that he'd thrown her off as well, she walked around him and pretended to examine the cabin. "I don't know," she shrugged, struggling for the right words. "You just seem very attached to it. No pun intended," she quickly added, skimming her hand over the top of his desk. The wood was incredibly smooth, the rich mahogany color faded with wear and time. She heard him actually laugh.

"It would be difficult to argue otherwise," he said. His boots clumped the floor behind her, the sound drawing nearer. She focused on a short row of books along a wooden shelf, reading the names. None of them rang a bell.

"I don't have any...shot glasses," he eventually said, "but I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I refused a lady company. I'll share a drink with you, if you like." She noted the deeper, sincere tone in his voice. Time to change the subject.

"Are these written in English?" she asked, the strange lettering that decorated the spines of two books catching her eye. She felt him walk up behind her, his heat warming her back as he peered over her shoulder.

Yeah, that had worked out great.

"Does it look like English?" he asked, lips close at her ear. Even as the muscles in her abdomen tightened, Emma felt like screaming at herself. Why the hell did she feel like this, even now with her son's life at stake? Why didn't she _leave?_

"What is it then?" she asked, pushing the thoughts away. "Can you read it?"

"Wouldn't be on my shelf if I couldn't," he answered. "It's Mermish."

Real shock grounded her. "Wait, as in mermaid language? Seriously?"

"Indeed. It was taught to me long ago. I know it well."

She turned to face him, gauging his expression for any sign that he was kidding, stringing her along, but he looked absolutely serious.

"Can you speak it?" she asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Perhaps," he smiled, eyes momentarily flicking downward. She thought at first that it was maybe just a sign that he was lying, but when his eyes met hers again there was a brief flash of something else, something she only ever saw from him. She uncrossed her arms.

"Say something, then," she said, unscrewing the cap of her flask as she did. The sharp, acrid scent of alcohol drifted up, and she quickly tipped a swig back. The alcohol scorched her mouth and throat, warming her stomach as it slid down. The familiar, comforting sensation immediately relaxed her.

"I would if I could," he answered, reaching for the container once she finished. She let him take it, his hand covering hers more than necessary as he did. She could feel the dry roughness of multiple calluses, the warmness of his skin. "However, it is a language that can only be spoken when one is underwater. Perhaps we could go for a swim one day, and I'll show you."

"How can someone speak underwater?" she asked, even as her eyes automatically focused on either side of his neck in turn. "Don't you need air for that?"

"Not necessarily in the way you think." He winked at her, pressing the flask against a smile as he took a substantially longer drink than she.

"Hey, easy buddy. I thought it was supposed to be mine," she grumbled, watching his throat work as he swallowed. He pulled it away and slid a tongue over his lips in a move that was too deliberate and slow to be natural.

"I have more," he assured her. "So there's no need to fear. You can come for a refill any time."

"Yeah, sure," she answered, the sarcasm only half-hearted. She looked down where his hand held the flask between them, but her eyes automatically focused on the way his chest rose and fell with breath. All thoughts of mermaids and strange languages fled her mind. She considered that she might have been standing too close, especially since he was still only half-dressed, but she didn't have it in her to fight against the obvious fact that she wanted to be there, that she even enjoyed talking to him. She liked that she could feel another human being so close to her, a presence that didn't threaten, demand answers, or make her feel like some fragile, cracked piece of porcelain.

Part by part, inch by inch, she allowed her eyes wander over him. She noted the scars that littered his torso, lingering a moment on one that cut below his ribs and disappeared around his back. She took in the way his skin lightened away from the v on his chest where his shirt usually dipped, and how the black hair there made his skin seem darker than it really was. His stomach muscles clenched under her gaze, defining the lines of his hips that disappeared under black leather. A gleam of silver and metal drew her eyes to his left arm. She followed the straps and buckles up to where they connected around the band above his elbow. Before she even cared to think about what she was doing, Emma raised her hand tentatively, touching her fingertips to the brace.

His arm twitched once under her, as if he intended to pull away, and she looked at him again. He was barely blinking, the color of his eyes nearly transparent as the lantern light shone in them. She was surprised when he finally lowered them, looking away from her.

"What are you getting at, Swan?" he asked, his voice low. There was no lightness in his tone, the teasing lilt gone.

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

She'd asked him the question that had been plaguing her since that night at the town line when he, already beaten and bloodied, had goaded Gold into trying to kill him again. The sheer hopelessness she'd seen in his furious eyes bothered her then, bothered her now.

He continued to stare at the floor, his jaw clenching and unclenching as the question hung unanswered in the air. She wrapped her palm around the place on his arm where the leather holster ended, fingers reaching his skin through the lattice of straps. It was colder than the rest of him.

"Why do I do what?" he finally asked, his eyes meeting hers again. They were tight, mocking. A farce.

"Hurt yourself. Try to kill yourself. Wear this." She pulled at his left arm gently, her eyes going back to see the scars and marks and discoloration under the brace.

His eyes flicked once from his hook and back to her face. "You answered that question for yourself before, if I recall correctly. What happened to that strikingly perceptive nature of yours?" The words were meant to be condescending, but they came out more like a plea. He didn't want to voice it aloud.

She sighed. "Milah, then? The woman Rumplestiltskin killed?"

"There it is," he whispered, eyes flashing. The man was receding again, back into his name.

"I can't believe she would have wanted you to live like this," Emma said, staring back just as fiercely. "I know what it's like to lose someone you care about. Spending your entire live as a slave to...to whatever hell you're stuck in, it's not the way to deal with it."

She was startled when he suddenly bent down, abruptly closing the small distance between them. She refused to yield when his lips ended up a hairbreadth away from her own, the smell of alcohol on his breath mixing with sweat. His face filled her gaze, and his eyes were hard, set, cold as he stared at her. "You have no idea what hells I've been a slave in, Swan."

Her lips parted, even as words failed her. Hook abruptly pulled his arm out from under her touch, and walked back across the length of his room. He left a void of cold air in his wake.

"You should head back to your cabin," he said, the words more a command than a request. He set the flask down on his desk before reaching for a bottle. "You wouldn't want your parents to wake and miss you."

She felt a flash of anger, a pang of frustration so intense that she could have stomped her foot through the floorboards. "You don't get to dismiss me like that, Hook."

"Oh don't I?" He finished with the bottle and screwed the cap back on the flask. He turned and stalked back towards her, holding the container out in front of him. "Well, as _Captain_ I'm ordering you to leave. Just take it and go get some sleep. There are long days ahead."

"No." She snatched the flask from him and placed it on one of the shelves beside her. "I'm not leaving until I know that you're not going to let Milah or some misplaced death wish get in the way of us finding Henry. I don't need to worry about you getting yourself killed on top of everything else."

"Oh really?" He suddenly smiled, flashing his teeth at her. Emma's hand involuntarily clenched itself. "So that was the whole point of..." he waved he hand towards her, "this. You're here to ensure that the bad pirate isn't going to leave you stranded, high and dry while he goes gallivanting off after the Crocodile. That's what you're really concerned about, isn't it darling?"

No, that wasn't all of it. She hadn't come into his cabin in the middle of the Goddamned night to "ensure" that he was really there to help. What else was she supposed to say, though? Surely not that she was lonely and hated the dark.

"Of course I'm worried about that," she finally answered, her voice louder and breathier than she'd intended. "You think that wasn't the first thing on my mind when I saw the way you looked at Gold when he walked on your ship? I know you want to kill him, and I knew what it meant for both of you to be stuck here together. I'm not here to judge that, though. I just want to know that you won't leave us, that I can trust you to really help - "

"Have you even stopped to consider why I was doing this in the first place?" he asked, cutting her off. "Did you think it was all because of you?"

"What – no," she answered quickly, his question sending her mind reeling. No, she wasn't that conceited. She didn't…

"You did," he said, a dark amusement narrowed his eyes. "How interesting."

"No, I fucking didn't," she insisted. "But it was what I wanted so I didn't question it."

"Oh. Of course," he answered, his tone derisive.

"Tell me why the hell you're doing this, then?" she asked, her own voice carrying loudly. "Why are you willing to put up with Gold, Regina, and us for a kid you don't even know? What's in it for you?"

"Nothing," he hissed, the simple word hanging heavy in the air. "Neverland holds nothing for me but pain and suffering, and I was a fool to come back. If I had half a bloody brain I'd be in the Enchanted Forest now, gathering a new crew for my ship. I could be plundering what's left, picking up the pieces of the life I abandoned. There could be a harem of whores in my cabin now, instead of an angry girl who doesn't know how to take a single damned order. And while the thought of helping a damsel in distress might be enough for some to willingly sail into the worst hell imaginable, it isn't for me. I'm not delusional. I'm the one with a ship, I can guide you, but that's all. I don't have magic, I don't have any real ties to any of you. It's laughable that you would even pretend to give a damn."

"But I do give a damn you fucking idiot!" she shouted. "Why else do you think _I'm _here, in your room, letting you give me the perve-eye all night long? Would someone who didn't give a damn put up with your freaking mood swings or try to understand what's motivating you? Are you that stupid, really?"

"You want to hear about stupid, love?" he asked, real anger sharpening his voice. She almost stepped back from it, but the fury she felt herself made her stance solid. In two quick strides he was back to being just inches from her, his face flushed and eyes livid. "I'll tell you about stupid," he practically whispered. "Consider, for a moment, the absolute idiocy of allowing yourself to care about someone, to offer them a home, to swear to protect them, and then let yourself believe that they could love you back. Imagine what it would be like then, when they throw it all back in your face and out of anger, you hand them over to a rabid pack of murderous wildlings. Therein lies my stupidity, Swan, and yours as well. You don't know a damn thing about me."

"I might if you would stop with the vague monologues," she said back. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Milah, darling," he answered, as if that one word was supposed to make any sense. "The reason for all of this. Do you know who she was? Do you know why Rumplestiltskin killed her?"

"I don't see - "

"Because she loved me, and not him," he said, the words falling out thick and slow. "Because she was his wife, the mother of his child. He tore her heart from her chest and ground it to dust while I watched, because she saw him for the coward he was. Because I dared to fight for her when he wouldn't."

All the breath seemed to leave his body as the tension suddenly eased from his face. The anger in his eyes faded to a practiced apathy, a tiredness beyond what she even felt. But his words...the mother of Rumplestiltskin child...

"Neal," she said, her eyes briefly catching on his necklace as she looked down. "Neal was Milah's..."

"Son," he finished.

"And you - you knew him when he - "

"Was a boy. When he was taken here by the shadow. I rescued him from the sea. Took care of him. Until he found out who I was."

"And...you gave him to those lost boys?"

"Yes, I did," he answered, stepping back. "I gave him over so that my crew and I would be spared Pan's wrath. Take it as you will."

"But they could have kill him," she said, the realization striking hard. How could he have given a child over to them? How could he give his true love's son...her mind was suddenly ringing with a thousand questions and what if scenarios. It took a moment before she finally realized the reason why he was telling her this now. "And Henry...Henry is Neal's son," she practically whispered. This was unbelievable. He'd left Neal in Neverland. He'd left him behind. And now they were here with him, his ship the only way to get back home.

"So what, do you think you can make up for that by saving Henry? You think you can make yourself feel better by using _my_ son to ease your guilt?" She was incredulous. She was confused. It could only help her find Henry if that was the case, but still...

"As I said, take it as you will. I've answered your question. You know why I'm here and why I won't stop until he's found and safe. I'm done explaining myself."

"Like hell you are," she said, reaching out and grasping his good arm before he could turn away from her. Her hand couldn't fit around the width of his wrist, so she slid it down and around his palm, cinching it. The gesture had been meant as rough, forceful, but Emma suddenly realized that she was holding his freaking hand.

She hadn't really meant anything by it. She just wanted him to answer the questions burning holes in her head, itching her tongue. As she gauged the startled expression on his face, however, and realized that his fingers had automatically closed around her hand, she couldn't remember a damned one of them. It was a moment before she even gave notice to the fact that she was gripping his upper arm too, the pulse in the crook of his arm beating against her thumb.

He pulled his arm towards his body, as if to detach her, but she refused to let go. Henry...Henry and Neal. He'd left Neal...

The hand that she'd wrapped around his bicep was now squeezed between his arm and his side. His skin radiated heat, instantaneously warming her chilled fingers. It felt like miniature lightning bolts were arcing from her hands to the pit of her stomach. She saw that his initial surprise had since faded into a blazing intensity. Emma felt her toes curling, like smoldering foliage beside a flame.

Henry...Neal...

_Comfort. Human touch._

He wasn't a ghost. He wouldn't hurt her. _She knew he wouldn't hurt her._

"What in the seven hells are you thinking, lass?" he breathed, his tone deep but quiet. It was soft. His forehead pinched together, his mouth open as if he wanted to say something else. The way his eyes searched her face so thoroughly, the way he stood so still, it was almost like he was preparing himself for something, dreading something. He looked confused, lost, as if he had no clue as to what to do.

"I'm not," she finally answered, the words barely audible. "I'm tired of thinking."

And she was.

He left Neal, and Neal had left her.

She was here for Henry, he was here for Henry.

Neal was gone. Milah was gone.

She was chilled to the bone, and he was warm.

The night held nothing else for her but solitude and quiet. Plain truths, laid bare and open.

Emma released his hand, slowly tugging herself away. His eyes watched the motion, and he closed them once she'd pulled away entirely.

"Look at me, Jones," she said, demand making her voice harsher than she'd intended. His eyes shot open, startled.

She put her palm against the pressed muscles of his chest, burying her fingers under the hair. It was soft, warm like the rest of him. She felt his breath catch.

"Swan - "

"Don't say anything," she stopped him. "Listen first. I'm tired, you're tired. I want to sleep, but I don't want to go back in that room. I don't want to do anything else but sleep. I...I can't..."

"Swan - "

"I'm not done," she cut him off again. "I can't...give anything more than that. I just...I'm sick of being alone."

His head tilted to the side, watching her. "But you're not. You're here with your mother and father looking for your son."

"Yeah, I am. But I've been alone for a long time, longer than I've known them. The fact that biology says they're my parents doesn't mean I feel everything I should. Not yet, at least. And with Henry and Neal - " she stopped herself when she heard the crack in her voice. She felt the wetness flood her eyes, closing them tight against it. She didn't cry. She wasn't going to.

When his hand came around the back of her head though, gently urging it towards his shoulder, she didn't try to stop him. Emma held the tears back, but she let him pull her forward, until she felt his chest and collar bone under her cheek, and two thick arms circle around her back.

"We'll find your son, love. And I'm sure Baelfire cared very much for you. He had a great capacity to care for others, even if what I did was unforgivable. The dead never truly leave us, much as we may want them to, sometimes."

She removed her scrunched arms from between them and wrapped them around his back, breathing in scent, warming herself against him. Here, in the quiet, she felt that emptiness in her fill, at least temporarily. She could feel it in him, as well, in the way his arms tightened, the way he moved his cheek against the top of her head. He was there for Neal and Henry, but regardless of what he said she could never believe that he wasn't there for her too.

"It sucks, you know?" she said, the sentence crass compared to his eloquence, but nonetheless accurate. She felt him chuckle lightly.

"Can't say I'm too familiar with that phrase, but judging by your tone I'm inclined to agree."

"It means something is bad, painful, and overall a shitty situation," she explained, though she was unsure as to why she needed him to understand it. His hand moved from her head to the bared skin on her back.

"Well then, I do agree. Except, I wouldn't go so far as to say this situation 'sucks' at the moment. Though, I have to wonder…" he trailed off.

"What?"

"What exactly are you asking of me, Emma?" he said, the words vibrating under her ear. She stiffened automatically. Had he meant the question a certain way? Did he think she was asking him to –

"Nothing," she said against him, her lips momentarily catching his skin. She felt his back tense, and she immediately pulled away. "Nothing at all."

"Is that so?" He slid his hand down across her shoulder, her arm. "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes. I just...it's like I said, I don't want to be alone."

"So, you _are_ asking to stay with me tonight?" he questioned, fingers catching her hand and lifting it to his lips. He pressed them lightly against the back of her hand. "Or at least, for what few hours are left of the darkness?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here is final part! I had it all written and ready to go way back when I published the first part, but it has been completely re-written since then. It was a struggle, and holy crap do I have intense respect now for the authors that can spin this kind of stuff out so perfectly on a regular basis. This wasn't easy in any sense of the word, but that also made it so much fun to write. I sincerely hope that everyone likes it, and since this is the first time I've published a scene like this in all its unabashed M-rated glory, please review! Criticism of any kind is very welcome**

**Thank you all for commenting and following and favoriting. I said on my Tumblr that I never expected the response that I've received, and I really just want to tell all of you how awesome you are. Seriously, thanks you guys! Love you!**

**Fall and Rise**

**Part 2**

The intimacy of the question coupled with the feel of his lips against his skin immediately drove Emma out of her comfort zone. She suddenly felt lightheaded, panicky. Why the hell did he have to say _anything?_ She yanked her hand away and tried to rub his touch off on her jeans. _How the hell had she gone from holding his hand to letting him kiss it?_

"Swan."

"No, no just stop," she said, fingers pressing into her temples.

The thrumming of her pulse beat loudly in her ears as she tried to clear her head, walk away, to make herself leave. This had been a fucking terrible idea, from start to finish. She couldn't let herself imagine what drove her to do it, to be so close to him like this, to let him touch her, to let herself be okay with it all.

"That's interesting," she heard him muse, laughter in his voice.

"What?" she snapped, her whole body tensing.

He shrugged. "I never would have imagined a simple gesture such as that would leave you so flustered. I could have saved so much effort if I'd known from the start."

"I'm NOT - God...just shut up, would you? It would take a whole hell of a lot more than you to make me _flustered_."

The moment his right brow quirked upward, mimicking the smirk now crawling across his face, Emma realized the absolute calamity of her mistake.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked, the glint in his eye mirthful.

Shit. She was two seconds away from walking right past him, escaping the confines of his room, escaping him, but something else seemed to override the urge to take off.

He actually looked...happy. He'd gone from serious, deadly, _sad..._to happy. He was enjoying himself, he was fucking loving the fact that he'd gotten to her. He was freaking teasing her, like some kid with a crush.

Was it genuine, though? Emma couldn't decide if he was just acting the part, or if any of it actually meant something. She tuned out the warning chimes in her head and ignored the way her brain screamed at her to jump away. She actually wanted to know what he'd do if she called him out on it. Emma was sick to death of the stupid routine that they were falling back into. She wanted the other guy back, the one that she'd been so close to only a few minutes before. If almost felt like he was trying to push her away, like his banter and playfulness was a face he used to beat back anything serious, like the way he used "Hook" to frighten people.

"Maybe it was a challenge," she answered him, taking a breath and drawing her shoulders back. She watched a shadow cast by the lantern light flicker over his face when he moved, his eyes widening momentarily before they narrowed back into the grin.

"And here I thought you were tired," he practically whispered. She flinched when his hand lightly touched the side of her neck, but she didn't step away.

"I am," she answered, purposefully keeping her answered short, vague. She wasn't going to tread on the issue at hand. That was up to him.

She suppressed a shiver when he began tracing his thumb along the underside of her jaw. He watched her face closely, and she knew he was searching for some kind of reaction or emotion, but she didn't give him anything. She kept her face blank, and empty. Bored. She could see the frustration bubbling in his gaze.

"A challenge it is, then," he said, his breath grazing over her ear. That, combined with the sudden ice of his hook on her skin, a line of steel grazing her spine as it caught on the low back of her camisole, nearly brought her to shove him away. She balled her fists instead.

He pulled his head back so that he could look at her face, and she watched as his gaze roved her lips, her neck, her chest. His tongue darted out and wet his bottom lip as he pressed his hook harder into her back, threatening pain if she didn't shove her body against his.

He was trying hard, now. Emma could almost see the way brain was working, the numerous minute, fleeting expressions crossing and sliding over his features. She honestly did understand him. She understood what he was doing. Of course he wasn't going to actually go through with anything. Even as she felt his chest align and press itself against the tops of her breasts, she knew this was practically as far as he would go. Hook was waiting for her to push him away, waiting for her to run. He was trying to scare her off as the sharp steel tip traced her camisole straps, sliding under, sliding back out, travelling along her shoulder and tracing the hollow of her collarbone. His eyes were focused on the way he moved the hook, and even though it bit in hard enough to leave lines, he never hurt her. He was being so careful, even as he tried to keep up the act, and she wasn't afraid of him.

If someone ever asked Emma to define the moment she began to trust him, she wouldn't have been able to give an exact answer. As she stood there, however, her hands relaxing and reaching for his waist, reveling in the way his breath stopped when her palms pressed along his sides, the near-caressing motion of the hook ceasing, she would have said that it was in that moment she recognized it. It was when his confused, terrified eyes met hers and sought answers to questions she'd yet to understand herself that she recognized the lost boy behind the man, the abandoned child he'd claimed to recognize in her.

He moved his hand from her neck, his hook from her skin. He let his arms fall to his sides, even as she gripped his burning skin harder.

"All talk, huh?" she asked, but she was careful not to make her voice harsh. She sighed, the tension built up inside her easing as she exhaled. "Thought so."

"Emma..."

"I mean, you do have a knack for it - the whole seductive man-whore thing - but it's just a front, isn't it? You're no closer to...doing _anything_ than you were when we first met and you were under a pile of dead bodies." She couldn't decide whether she was grateful for that fact, or if it bothered her. She'd told him plainly enough that she wasn't here for sex, that she couldn't give herself to him like that, but even now her actions were screaming otherwise. She was touching _him_, she'd let him ogle her, and she'd ogled him back. She found herself wanting to dissect everything he said, bury herself under the layers and talk to him like a human being. Everything in that moment went so far against everything she was, everything she'd been before.

Once the sun rose and they landed on the island, however, she knew that this would all disappear. She realized that this wasn't something that could last. Everything was about to change, everyone was going to be in danger, and Emma knew that she wouldn't be able to spend another second wondering about Killian Jones or what could have been. Henry was everything to her, would always be everything. He was her true love - part of her in a way that Hook and Neal could never hope to be. This hour of darkness, this one stolen moment was the only night she and the confused, broken man in front of her would ever have together. Her chest swelled, constricting painfully when she met his eyes again. _It could have been so much more._

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, voice quiet and rough with some kind of emotion she couldn't place. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?" she asked, squinting her eyes, "calling you out on your bullshit?"

"Huh," he scoffed, nodding ever so slightly. Even as his eyes wandered over her head and his teeth bit down on the bitter smile, she knew that he understood exactly what she meant. The only thing left between them was air. No more masks, no more jokes, no more pointless flirting.

"Colorful terminology," he quipped, looking back down at her. "But hardly accurate."

She pulled back, alarmed at the sudden change in his tone. He seemed almost angry, and just too damn intense compared to how he'd been only a moment before. She realized that something important had changed in him when he followed her, keeping the distance between them nearly nonexistent. He didn't look confused anymore. Anything that might have reminded her of that lost, abandoned kid melted away to reveal the fully adult, aware, confident man she'd seen when she first came in his room. A man that had lived hundreds of years, loved and lost, faced down more terrors than she cared to imagine, and suffered exquisitely beneath his façade. Every part of him that had ever existed was here with her now, every layer and personality blended into one Captain Killian Jones.

The speed at which he yanked Emma against him and clamped his lips and teeth down on her mouth nearly stopped her heart. She couldn't help the alarmed shout that caught and got trapped in her throat as he sucked and bit at her, stealing her breath and hoarding every last sound she issued.

Her head spun madly, her hands instinctively clutching at his chest as she struggled for balance. His hook dug into her side as he held her, his hand grasped possessively around the back of her neck. She hadn't been prepared for the assault, the sheer desperation and need in his bruising grip. She didn't know how long he worked his lips over hers, his hot, wet tongue delving beyond her own, filling her so damn completely before she had the presence of mind to dig her own hands into his flesh, to scrabble along his skin as she searched for something to grasp. She ended up fisting his hair, yanking him closer, soft, thick tufts caressing the sensitive skin between her fingers. Emma fought back against his onslaught on her lips, biting down that damned bottom lip of his until he groaned in protest. She surged her own tongue into his mouth, lapping at the sharp taste of alcohol which still lingered, swallowing him. Every last part of her burned with him as sweat beaded on her brow, the room's chill unable to touch her as his body surrounded her, melded with her.

They both gasped for air when he finally ripped his mouth away, opting instead to drag his tongue along her jaw in a hot, thick wet line. The dizziness Emma felt as she gulped in air made her realize that she'd fucking forgotten to breathe, but as she felt the warm slickness cover and pulse over her ear, teeth on her lobe, the last damn thing on her mind was how to suck in air properly.

There was no more thinking, nothing beyond how she could feel more of herself against him, how she could mold herself closer. Her nails ran lines down his neck, her hands gripped his shoulders. She could feel the soft brush of his chest hair on the sensitive tops of her breasts as he dragged his mouth off her ear and down the line of her neck, teeth scraping as sharply as his hook did along her back.

"God," she whispered between gasps, her lips throbbing in tune with the aching heat that now screamed for attention, for touch. The flurry of sensation was overwhelming her, and he hadn't even really touched her yet. She wondered for a moment if he'd been purposefully preserving that last barrier, even now stopping himself from pursuing the path of no return. She groaned in frustration, his lips still locked over the thin skin of her neck, his hand still gripping the back of it. Who exactly was he stopping himself for, though? Was it for her sake or his own?

"Jones," she ground out, using his shoulders as handles to push him off. He came away easily enough, but even that frustrated the hell out of her. His lips were swollen, red and _God _so perfect, pouted out and glistening as he pushed them against hers again, stopping her from saying anything else. She couldn't help but kiss back, this time softer, less violent, but the thought still rattled around her head as his hand moved to another safe location, buried in her hair. Not where she wanted it.

But the feel of his stubbed fingernails as he lightly dragged them across her scalp made her body throb harder, and her stomach twist into an impossible knot as her insides clenched hard. Had it really been so long that such simple, almost chaste touches could wind her up so thoroughly? Her body was on fire, the base of her abdomen practically already on the verge of exploding, and he hadn't even gotten to second fucking base.

"Jones," she whined against his lips, _whined,_ and he quickly silenced her again with a fresh attack, using his teeth again to arouse her lips, blood rushing into the sensitive flesh as he released them and bit down again.

She couldn't take it anymore. She wanted to feel his hand on her skin, she wanted her clothes gone, she wanted to see and feel all of him. If he wasn't going to cross that barrier, then she would.

Emma dragged her hand and nails down over the tensed muscles of his chest, catching and lightly tugging at his nipples before scratching over his stomach, her fingers spreading just above where the leather began. She inhaled his gasp, the sound making every hair on her body stand on end. She moved her head down, tracing his throat with her tongue this time, scraping along the whiskers as she tasted him, the rough texture as much a taste as the saltiness beneath. She slipped her fingers under the leather, the unyielding fabric squeezing against her as she began to feel his contours, the hardness…

His hand suddenly left the back of her head, grasping one wrist as his hook encircled the other, twisting it so that her palm was trapped against its point. He pulled upward, forcing her away.

"What…what are you doing?" she asked, the high, breathless pitch of her tone suggesting a certain desperation that she was startled to recognize. If he stopped now…if after all this he stopped…

She met his eyes for the first time since it began, and immediately noticed the wariness, the sheer unadulterated anxiety present there. Her stomach flipped, and not in the good way. Had he really looked like this the entire time?

"Emma, I haven't…" he started, pausing to try and regain some kind of control to his voice. "You don't know that I haven't been…this would be…"

As words escaped him, Emma found herself piecing together what he was trying to tell her. She tried to hide her shock when the obvious problem struck her, made her heart hurt so much for him.

"How long?" she asked quietly, watching something akin to shame darken his gaze.

"Milah," he breathed, voice catching in the back of his throat. "I haven't, not with…"

She shut him up herself this time, leaning in and kissing him once, softly. Her hands were still trapped as she strained towards him, pressing her cheek against his. She thought for a moment that she felt a drop of wetness there, caught in his scruff. A moment later he released her hands, and she slid her right one up the leather holster on his arm, running her hand along his skin above it.

"Trust me," she said, holding on to him with a ferocity and strength she didn't even think she had anymore. After a moment, she gently tugged herself away, kissing his cheek once before separating herself from him completely. She smiled at him then, really smiled, and without hesitation flicked her shirt up and over her head. The wariness in his eyes gave way to something more appropriate, something that made her stomach clench again.

"Get on the bed, pirate," she said, flushing slightly as reality of what she was about to do sunk in. He watched her, interest obviously perked. Emma could see the way his curiosity battled with that defiant nature, the emotional turmoil easing away. She just had to distract him, keep him focused on her, in the moment. The past and the present were all they really had in a place where time never moved forward, and since both of their pasts held nothing but loneliness, abandonment, pain, all they had was there, in front of them _now_. There was no future beyond that night, no further encounters to look forward to, no lifetime ahead of them. Every last precious second counted, ticked by too fast.

"You mean that bed?" he asked, bordering on the edge of playful as he pointed to it. Emma narrowed her eyes at him.

"Do it," she said, her voice curt. A moment of hesitation stopped him from moving, another flash of uncertainty clouding his gaze. Emma sighed, bracing herself before slowly twisting her arms behind her back. She realized that she was shaking as her fingers fiddled with the clasp of her bra, the way he watched her so raptly making everything pool hot and pulsing in her core. She lifted her chin when the small hooks finally gave way, breathing in a lungful of air and straining for even a shred of his confidence as she slowly brought the edges around, sliding the straps from her shoulders.

As she flung the material away, shivering when the raw air struck her bare skin, she found that boldness. As his eyes traced across her body in sweeping strokes, the utter desire and lust present there so open and bare, she found that confidence.

His hand had balled into a fist, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he slowly moved, walked to the edge of his bed. He still didn't lay down, but it was a start. She closed the distance between them, pausing before she let her fingers just barely run across his shoulders, his arms, her nipples hardening into painful knots as they just barely brushed across his skin, her core pulsing harder with each arc of sensation. His breathing was shallow, pulse thrumming under her fingers. As he leaned down, lips seeking hers for a kiss, she laid her palms flat over his shoulders and shoved as hard as she could. A surprised shout escaped before his body toppled backwards, her legs tangling between his as she fell on top of him. _Finally._

Her legs straddled either side of his waist as she ground down on him hard, the extent of his need unabashedly apparent beneath the layers of fabric that still separated them. He seemed winded beneath her, his hand moving immediately to her hip while he kept his hook clear. For a moment it seemed like he was about to shove her off, fingers digging in as he struggled to regain some kind of command, but she just ground her hips down further, the feel of him so hard beneath her own heat practically euphoric. She covered his mouth with hers, her hands braced on his neck as she kissed him, the ragged gasps of air escaping from his mouth when she pulled away fanning across her skin, her shoulder. Her hair covered both of them, strands catching in his beard, dragging across his face as she laid kisses along his jaw, his ear, the smooth skin above the whiskers.

Emma slid her hand down across his chest again, nails digging, her palm rubbing. Every time she rocked her hips backward, he'd let loose another strangled moan, as if just the sheer friction and her weight against him were enough to drive him over. When his teeth locked over the spot where her shoulder and neck met, a guttural growl vibrating against her, she suddenly realized that he was close. Considering how long it had actually been since he'd done this with someone else, she wasn't surprised, but she also knew that they both would regret it later if she forced him to come so soon, especially without her even having _seen_ him. She'd been around enough men in her past, and not even as sexual partners, to know that things like this were a matter of pride, potential humiliation. She sat up again, sweeping her hair over her shoulder as she looked at him, flustered and bothered and so damn close beneath her. She stopped moving, resting just perfectly with his heat pressed against hers. She could feel him searing through the leather, her jeans. Just watching him, appreciating the way his chest and stomach contracted with hard-fought breath was enough to make her own sex burn hotter. She let out a ragged sort of moan herself when his hand travelled up from her side to cup her breast, thumb running over and pushing against the hard peak.

"So beautiful," he said, kneading the soft flesh, eyes locked with hers as he caught the bud between the pads of his fingers and rubbed, squeezed. Her heart had always pounded a bit harder than usual whenever she looked into those blue irises, dark lashes and white skin framing them so perfectly, but she couldn't stop herself when her eyes rolled back, her body taking control away from her brain as she accidentally rocked over him again, her back arching into his touch. As soon as her eyes closed, she felt him adjust, his arm circling her waist and the hook's tip pressing in the angle of her hip as he sat up. She gasped loudly when she suddenly felt his mouth close over her other nipple, his fingers still torturing the other. Her body wanted to move again, but the sharp sting on her hip made her stop.

"Be still, darling," he rumbled against her, voice deep and filled with so much of his usual menace that a thrill of something dark and dangerous made her breath catch. She froze, looked down to meet his eyes as he gazed up at her, even as he pressed a practically chaste kiss to skin under the aroused, red bud. She gripped hard into his shoulders, swallowing back another sound.

"Now, tell me, do you enjoy torturing me?" he asked, before flicking his tongue out over it once, lazily. She pressed herself into him, and he made the steel sting again, on the verge of breaking her skin.

"More than anything," she growled, glaring at him.

"Such an angry lass," he smirked, before taking the whole of her nipple into his mouth, teeth clamping as he pulled, swirled his tongue, cheeks hollowing as he sucked mercilessly, beard scraping the sensitive skin around it until she felt raw.

"Jones," she groaned, only a hint of annoyance swept into the pleasure. His hand left her other breast aching, the bud throbbing, and then it was descending over her stomach, rough calluses catching and dragging across her skin. She couldn't help the way her hips slammed into his again, the need to feel him, all of him, against her and in her overpowering everything else. He angled the sharp tip of his hook away from her just as she did, and she used the opportunity to grip the back of his head, forcing his mouth down on her harder. His hand roamed across the front of her jeans, fingers catching the button and pulling it open. He paused over the zipper, and she could tell he was trying to force himself to think, figure it out, but after a moment he just yanked one side of her fly down hard, the metal links giving way. The thought that he might have broken it crossed her mind, brought her back from the haze. She opened her mouth to scold him, drew her hand back to slap his arm, but when his fingers dove quite suddenly downwards, and there was suddenly skin against her slick folds, his skin, his hand, she screamed instead.

"Oh God," she practically cried, still holding his hot and insistent mouth against her breast as he immediately began to stroke her, push into her, his movements unpredictable, fingers going to that tight, engorged bundle of nerves, to the smooth skin below, ghosting over her entrance.

"Hell, Emma," he said, finally drawing his mouth away. The desperation was back in his voice, the open and raw need. She moved against his hand, urging him on, the blackness behind her lids alight with sparks of light and colors she couldn't even begin to comprehend. Every last one of her muscles stiffened, bunched into tight bundles, straining. He rubbed at her harder, mashing her clit against her pelvic bone, drawing it in rough circles.

She felt the wetness well in her eyes, leak to the corners of her clenched lids as the impossible sensations overtook her, rode her to the fucking ground and tossed her into the sky all at once. His lips were over hers again, covering her mouth, leaving no room for breath. She was about to pull away when quite suddenly, she felt his fingers force their way inside her, past the already spasming walls, stretching them and filling her even as they tried to force closed around him.

If he hadn't covered her mouth with his so utterly, sucking her air away, the scream that burst out of her throat would have woken the entire damn ship. It became too much, too intense, too utterly excruciating and sensual for words. Even as she marveled in the sheer magnificence, basking in the warmth and fulfillment, she wrapped her arms around his neck and felt the tears continue, her chest seize and release abruptly. As the waves stilled to ripples, her world came apart around her in jagged, piercing shards.

"No," he breathed against her, removing his hand and wrapping his other arm around her. "Don't...don't Emma, please..."

She held tighter, trying to sink into him, to disappear.

"Shut up," she told him, forcing herself to fight a sudden sob back. "Just shut up. Not yet."

Emma knew it was almost over. The moment, the dark. Her chest hurt, now ached at the thought that they had so little time left. She didn't want it to end. She didn't want to be forced to choose between this and her son, but she still knew without a doubt that she had to, and she would. There was only so much of her, and as desperately as she wanted to be with him, to help him...to let herself see just how deep all of this actually went, she couldn't afford to. Her son couldn't afford it.

"Emma..."

"Don't you dare," she growled, letting herself get angry. She was furious with herself, furious at the circumstances. She met his eyes, let him see the rage replace whatever had been there a moment before. "Don't you dare stop. I'm not done."

He moved a piece of hair from her face, his hand winding itself and fisting her hair as he did. She sucked in a hard breath when he suddenly pulled at it, forcing her head back. His tongue darted along her bottom lip, sliding into her mouth before pushing his lips against hers for a hard, quick peck. He didn't give her the chance to kiss back.

"Darling, I haven't yet begun."

The grip he had around her waist tightened, and she felt air rush past her face as he flipped her onto her back, his hand and hook both sliding under the top of her jeans before she could beat him to it. He yanked down at them, jerking her body as he did, the tight fabric scrunching and frustrating him as he struggled to strip her legs. She caught the end of her pants with her foot and tugged herself, but he pressed his weight over her before he could make much progress.

"No, love. This is something I will do myself," he whispered against her lips, kissing her again, his hand massaging her breast, squeezing it hard once before tearing away and focusing back on his task. He switched tactics, going from violently shoving at the fabric to tugging it carefully down, a mere, excruciating inch at a time. His fingers spanned across the top of her thigh, brushing inwards as he worked his hand under the denim, his hook dragging a sharp line down the skin on her other leg. Once it was pushed down to her knees, he brought his lips up to the crease where her left leg joined her hip, tugging the thin scrap of fabric left down with one finger, before sliding that same finger under the band to the other side, where did the same. His nose gently nudged where his fingers had been only moments before, the sudden sensation making her grip at the sheets beneath her.

"Fuck," she whispered, the harsh word making him chuckle. She bucked her hip towards him, but he moved away, his hand on her calf as he slid one of her pants legs off entirely, the other following quickly. "Damnit, Jones," she cursed again, hooking her own thumbs under the lacey fabric and dragging it down. His hand caught her before she could pull it entirely away, the threat in his eyes making her heart sputter.

"What did I tell you?" he warned, his large hand easily encircling her wrist, the grip as unyielding and strong as the steel of his hook. She felt the metal of his rings dig into her skin. "Leave that to me, Emma."

She huffed, but still under him. He smiled once at her, a genuine smile, before sliding his hand over hers and interlacing their fingers. He bent low over her as she watched, and Emma practically jumped out of her skin when she felt the burn of his whiskery chin on her thigh, the quick slickness of his tongue, and then the bite of his teeth as he took the lace into his mouth. His icy eyes locked with hers as he tugged down, God so slowly, his hook mimicking the downward motion on the other side. Her breath hitched when the open, cool air struck her there, Killian's eyes shifting to _look _at the juncture between her legs, staring, raking his eyes over it. She felt the blush creep along her skin, though for the life of her she couldn't imagine why it should matter when his fingers had already thoroughly memorized her. She squirmed under him, shifting her legs and sliding up the bed. He clasped her hand harder, though, stopping her from moving away, telling her that he wanted her right there with another flick of his eyes.

He paused over her calf, taking the time to press a kiss, a soft bite along the back of her knee, before finally releasing her hand and using his to swipe the lace off her legs completely in one, fluid motion. She was completely bare beneath him, nothing hidden as he worked kisses back up her other leg, his tongue pointedly darting out over the scattered beauty marks, kissing each dark freckle. He cupped her thigh with his hand as his did, easing her legs further apart, moving his face ever closer. The dark gleam in his eyes should have given some kind of warning, but she wasn't exactly thinking clearly. His tongue suddenly delved into her, and her back curved off the bed.

"Jesus Christ," she moaned, automatically shoving herself against him harder, the pressure of his teeth and tongue and lips driving inward forcing her to cover her own mouth with a hand. He pushed back, tongue probing deeper, teeth set against her as he strained to consume her, lapping at the wetness, sucking her. His hand gripped her side and yanked her even harder against him, until he was breathing against her, into her, and she felt herself begin to fall again.

Just as she felt herself toe over the edge, though, he abruptly pulled away. She instinctively reached her other hand down, intent on reaching that peak at all costs, but he merely caught her wrist again and forced it on the bed beside her head, letting the weight of his body fall over her, pinning her completely.

"You son of a bitch," she gasped, meaning the words to be harsh and angry, but instead they tumbled out as a whimper.

"The name's Killian, love. Who was that fellow's name you called out a moment ago?" he asked against her lips, the slickness left on his face and lips from her body rubbing on hers, salty and musky. She kissed him even as she laughed softly to herself, the question one only he would ask.

"He's sort of a god in our world," she answered back, curling her fingers around his hand. "But they're just words."

"A god?" he mumbled, and the laughter died in her throat as he suddenly ground himself against her, the leather slick and cool. "I plan on being the only god you ever call out for again, Emma. And don't you dare forget that." His mouth covered hers before she could reply, his hand releasing hers as he reached between them to the clasps on his breeches.

Emma automatically arched into him, purposefully moving past his words, shoving them to the back of her mind. She was eager now, so irrationally happy that he'd finally reached this point. She quickly joined her hands with his, pulling at the leather even as his hand fumbled over his own buttons, his breath catching when she held her hand against him through the fabric. The second she felt the gap open in the leather, she pushed past it and sought him, grasping his hardness tightly in her hands, his skin so damned hot and tight. His hand planted itself beside her head as he shifted his weight from his left forearm, the sound that escaped from his throat of a frantic, desperate kind, mingling the high and low pitches of his voice, cracking. Breaking.

He collapsed against her, just barely able to hold himself off her chest. The weight in her palms was so beyond aroused that she wondered at how he hadn't come yet, how he'd held back. Testing it, tugging and squeezing with both hands, she watched in morbid fascination as his face fell slack, his jaw tight and grinding, those beautiful eyes closed in agony.

"Damnit, Emma," he growled, his voice rougher than she'd ever heard it, practically pleading with her.

She craned her head upward until she was kissing the underside of his chin, his Adam's apple, brushing her face and lips over the prickly scruff as his blood pulsed beneath it. She felt the way he swallowed hard when she removed once of her hands and ran it over the rise of his chest, rubbing her thumb over one of his nipples, teasing it as he'd so mercilessly done to hers. She let her tongue travel down to that soft point between his collar bones, pressing in with her mouth until she could feel his throat working, the vibrations of his groans, all the while gripping and releasing his hardness as it grew hotter, heavier in her grasp.

"Emma…enough," he suddenly gasped, begged, that one word holding in it enough anguish and pure distress to make her hands freeze, her lips pull back. The sound of it tore at her heart, and she was suddenly desperately afraid that she'd taken things too far.

"Killian," she breathed, the ardor evaporating around her. "Killian look at me," she urged, moving both of her hands to his face as he tilted his head down. When his eyes met hers, the tightness around them suggested something like anger, but the way they gleamed a shade too bright, light catching in the moisture that coated them, Emma realized with a heartbreaking clarity just what it was.

"Oh God."

His hips were suddenly pulling off of her, and she cried out when his tip dragged down along her, until he just barely touched her entrance, his face set in a hard grimace as paused, eyes boring into hers as he waited, as she waited, breath ceased, blood pounding.

Whispered words tempered the silence.

"_I love you."_

He thrust into her with such force, such mind-numbing strength that the world disappeared around her. She was incapable of drawing enough breath to scream, her stomach clenching painfully as her muscles, her core contracted all at once, his hardness now raking, pulsing, shoving at her insides with such relentless ferocity that the only thing she could do was grip at his back, drawing blood as he moved beneath her nails, as she moved with him.

"Killian…" she called his name, her voice echoing and filling all those dark spaces. Tears tracked down her face as her gut clenched into itself, her chest expanding as she pushed a ragged breath out. "Killian – "

She could hear her own voice cracking as her body split apart at the seams, hugging his face against hers as he continued to move, as she met him beat for beat. The sound that exploded out of his chest as he fell apart above her mixed with her own cries, rivaling their intensity, their volume.

"Emma…" his voice gave way, failing. The sound of him calling for her sent her crashing over the edge, sent her toppling over into an impossible abyss that held no end. She was never coming down, there was no end in sight as he flooded into her, her body spasming around him, his shoulders jerking and shaking above her.

There was a single moment of clarity when she realized that she was plummeting with him, that they were falling in that abyss together, so thoroughly wrapped and twisted around each other that nothing could have pried them apart, nothing could have taken him from her. Her hips rose to meet his over and over again, and he filled her so wholly, so perfectly, the sounds escaping from him as he threw every last bit of himself into her making her heart swell and hurt and throb.

She became vaguely aware of his weight falling completely across her, the short gasps issuing from behind his clenched teeth spreading over the skin of her neck. Her vision was still black, and it took a moment for her to realize it was because her lids were still clenched shut. She sucked in air as if she'd never breathed before, willed her heart to slow from its frenzied rhythm. She could feel his heart pounding through his chest, the way every last bit of tension leaked from his muscles as he sunk against her. It was a long moment before he stirred, but when he lifted himself to move away from her, Emma gripped her arms around his neck tighter, holding him in place. She felt his thumb brush over her cheek, rubbing small circles before moving to the other side and doing the same.

Emma finally opened her eyes. When she met his gaze, the depth of his relief, his awe, his sadness swallowed her whole as she lost herself there. The fringe of his dark bangs hung over his eyes, giving his face a younger, almost boyish look to it. She pulled her hand around to lightly stroke her finger along the scar below his right eye, before moving it to brush his hair away. She cupped his cheek as he lowered his lips, touching hers once, twice, a third time. He let himself down again, slowly, watching for a sign that his weight was too much, but it never was. Every part of him touched every part of her. His body protected hers from the cold air in the room, protected her from the early morning light as it inched its way across his floor, the sky beyond his cabin's window lighting to a harsh shade of yellow.

"The sun is rising," he said quietly. The careful, emotionless tone was jarring in comparison to way he'd sounded only moments before.

"It is, isn't it?" she mumbled, glancing once at the window. His hand swept the hair from her shoulder, and Emma sighed as he laid a kiss to her collar bone. She gently combed her fingers through his thick, soft hair until the mussed locks fell back into place.

"The night does seem to have slipped away from us," he said, pressing one more kiss against her skin before meeting her eyes. "It's a shame."

It was gone, and they both knew it. Their moment was now only a memory. Neverland may have been timeless, and that night would forever be locked and bound in the world's history, its past, but it was time to move forward. They both had to leave it behind. For Henry.

"Killian…" she sighed, the words spoken just before they'd both lost themselves to oblivion rushing back in a swirl. "Killian you know that…"

"Darling, I think it's time we rose as well. The others will be waking soon," he suddenly said, stopping her from finishing. "And as perfect as you may look to me now, I'm afraid your parents would find that wild hair of yours quite alarming. We should hurry."

"I…Killian…" she sighed, closing her eyes against his. Even just looking at him now made her want to scream, to rant and rave at the world and just hit _something._ Thoughts of killing Greg and Tamara even entered her mind, rage building as Henry's face swam before her eyes, Neal's last words playing back, Killian's warm hand on her face, what she'd…

"You're right," she finally said, forcing it all down again. Heaping shovelfuls of dirt and gravel and concrete over it. Instead of screaming like a madwoman, she smiled faintly. "We've got a long day ahead of us."

"An entire journey," he corrected, raising a brow as he glanced at the window. "But…" he readjusted himself, withdrawing from her, moving his body from overtop hers. He swung his legs over the side of the bed until he was sitting with his back to her, and she almost laughed when she saw that his pants had never even made it all the way off. "But," he started again, sliding the leather back up his hips, "at least you're not alone."

His words were soft, intended to be meaningful. Emma's heart constricted ever so slightly, but she did her best to think about other things. She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest and locking her legs together so that she was at least partially covered, and watched the muscles of his back work as he hid himself from her, buttoning the leather closed again. Her hands itched to reach out a stop him, to run along his back and smooth over the harsh marks she'd left there, but instead she kept them wrapped tightly around her legs.

"And Emma," he said, now struggling with his boots. She titled her head to the side, waiting for him to look back at her, but he never did. The words were aimed at the wall when they came out, only a sliver of his face visible to her.

"When the time comes, however long it may take, I will look you in your eyes and return the words. When your heart is free again, and your boy is safe…then I will tell you that I love you, too."


End file.
